Mr. Schaefer is boiling. He’s been trying to teach covalent bonds while Jessica and I pass notes. Usually he wouldn’t mind—he stares at Jessica’s ass every time she walks out of class—and I’m his best student. He knows I’m going to Harvard or somewhere. But right now, I want Jessica to explain why she told Matt.

“Would you two mind telling me what’s so f-ing important that you can’t wait twenty more minutes until class is out?” He always swears in class, just not the f word. He’s the football coach, so duh. But like there’s really any difference between “fuck” and “damn.”

Even from the third row, I look him straight in the eye and give him the simple story. “Jessica told Matt that I like him but I won’t go out with him because he’s a geek.” Right after I say it, the whole class snickers. But I don’t care. Even Matt, sitting behind me, snickers. I blush but don’t care and Jessica huffs.

Mr. Schaefer throws his chalk at the black lab counter in front of him. It explodes in little yellow splinters. One hits him in the face. Class laughs, but now he’s spitting when he yells. “I don’t give a fuck who you like. You do not need to pass notes in my class room.” His face is red. Maybe he’ll have an embolism. Today I wouldn’t care, but normally, we get along fine.

I decide not to say anything, but Jessica, she’s not the smartest.

“Mr. Schaefer, you can get in really big—”

“Shut up!” He picks up another piece of chalk and throws it at her. She ducks and smacks her cheek on the counter. It’s like a sit-com, but not really. It’s so ridiculous we all laugh, me under my breath, and Mr. Schaefer seems like the veins in his neck are going to start gushing blood any minute. His whole body shakes. Maybe it’s a seizure instead. A bitching seizure.

Calmly, quietly, but I’m angry, I say, “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but I needed to know. Jessica and I have been friends for, like, five years and I don’t want something like this to ruin our relationship.”

Mr. Schaefer stands with his mouth open, like I just told him his wife takes it up the you-know-where. Then he leans forward, against the counter, with both hands, and just stares at me. The class is quiet. Even Jessica.

I wonder when I should say something else, but instead, he speaks up first.

“You both are going down to the principal’s office right now. I don’t want to hear another word—”

Jessica, rubbing her cheek, speaks up again. I do too. “We can’t go. My mom will kill me. It’s her fault.” We stop speaking over each other and I add, “But, I’m the best student you have.”

He pauses for a minute, like he’s thinking about what we said. Then, Mr. Schaefer walks past the first row, the second, running his hairy hand over each lab counter as he does. He stops in front of me.

I nearly whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He leans over the counter, reaching for me, but I fall back off of my stool and someone—Matt—catches me. It takes a moment, but the football players in the second row get a hold of Mr. Schaefer before he can punch me or whatever
and I’m scared out of myself and screaming. Mr. Schaefer fights and kicks and says all kinds of crazy things about his wife and how all this stuff isn’t happening and why should other people get to be happy. Meanwhile, somebody runs down to the principal’s office and then a couple of teachers come in.

He doesn’t come back to school. Later, I hear his wife leaves him. A couple of girls in sixth period History even tell the principal that Mr. Schaefer tried to touch them but that’s just a lie because they like him. Nobody could prove it. Jessica and I stay friends. Matt and I don’t end up married or dating or anything. Not even once. Just that time in Chemistry when he
catches me.

Born in Chattanooga, Tennessee, J. Marcus Weekley grew up all over the U.S. of A. He started writing and photographing in high school, and his first collection of both, something about, is now available at http://www.lulu.com/content/635376. Marcus' writing has also appeared in Thieves Jargon, Quick Fiction, The Iowa Review, and Double Room, among other
places, and is forthcoming in Versal, Hudson View, and bottle rockets. His images also accompany the nonfiction essays of Gail Folkins in Texas Dance Halls, forthcoming in August 2007 from Texas Tech University Press.